34. After certain death, I sat beside the window.
2025.04/23.26
Pale blue kind of night it was, I don't remember what I was doing in school;but it was late going home. As I walked I heard a sudden shriek from behind me and turned to see people gathering and panicking whilst one collapsed in the middle. Seemingly, someone was dead. It was a quiet panick that would eat you up for hundred years to come.I turned back for I realized I had come here with a bike, however a guard stopped me and told me to hurry home. So I walked slowly home.
The day after, there had been a seating change and I got the seat next to the window. A dull kind of girl sat next to me, whom I had great empathy for; for I was quite dull myself. I looked on through the open window displaying a gray tall building with red antennae on top. The mountain and the pale blue looming over us.
"Wonder what that gray building is. I've wondered this for almost two years since I've been coming here. (I fear, and pray not to learn of any death, and wonder what those gray concrete brick walls hold. I wonder what the antennae is for, I wonder of the unique lightness of being we share, sitting by this window. I will go home on a bicycle tonight, and there will always be that awful shriek in the back of my wheel. But I will forget, once small free souls round up around the bonfire and dance, and I will watch from the roadside with burnt grass penetrating my nostils.)"
My disinterest in gore and erotica has made me an outcast from society; not outcast of human but perhaps from the mass. I feel quite human and alike to many other humans in this world, but the mass I quite feel apart from; I have found the study of life to be somewhat important nowadays. Not because it is estoric in any way, being a human, bone structures and innards that compose of life and its decay does look intruging in away as gentle soft shape of humanity does as well. But it is far too loud and far too naive to give in to the tangible things in life for the reality exist in the quiet idea of the worldly components. Think nothing of the touch; if achievable, flying too close to the sun does not hold any beauty. In the renaissance era of humanity, the unknown brought the idea, the most beautiful state of mind, to us and thus made us curious and estoric. I ride to see the quite beauty and it is everywhere and I feel hurt because of time; but they stood slouched on the fence next to a combini on the outskirts of middle sized town in the haze of the afternoon light, lighting a tabacco in their hands and ashes fall. The ashes fall. Falls through the grate to the running subway underneath. And the ashes fall.
Riso.
33.If it weren't for that green light
2025.04/19
Riding late afternoon through dust, I recall having strong fascination towards the prince in snow white; not attraction, I barely remember what he looks like; I just remember him looking quite fake and I hated that, so no. Not that kind of fascination, but it was when he cut through those roses; the sound of blade slashing through tough vines and roses being cut. Also, all I can remember now in aladdin is him drowning to the depth with weight tied around his leg. I remember having funeral for my dolls as well. Its the same fascination I have toward towns and time; a strange fascination and a very strong fear toward death. The idea makes everything so beautiful, but I fear it and hope not for all to perish for I love that beauty. Such paradox; but pardox make one beautiful as weakness does not look beautiful but makes you beautiful. So be lid not of the weakness of the physical form; the uglyness of the physical makes one so beautiful in idea.
As you'll know, I would stare forever at the river that flows neither up nor down if it weren't for the green light waiting to change.
Alice chases the white tamed hare; I'll chase the bloody path of a injured stingy stray cat.
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32.Tool
2025.04/13
It is always the question of " are you using it or is it using you?" In terms of tools. Tools will in some shape or form, shape your thoughts. However, there always must be a sense of worldly element in using the tech. In other words, the point in using the tool must not be in using the tool, but in shaping with the tool.
I've found this in the most practical way when introduced to gamedev. (complete newbie, still cannot implement bools in the game without help but am trying and in admiration of people fluent in the language.)
That being said, its a sad thing for beauty of making to be taken away by those who are being used by tools. There must be some point in ones life to turn around and think of the authentic self that has died almost a decade ago. Playing in the mud is fun.
The brain melts on the white marbled floor in front of the elevator and an eye covered by thick strands sings the song, flat of any ego. Dream of Sci-Fi Esque buildings near the ocean; those that hate the stench of humanity. The ladder hangs tall, leading to extreme cleanliness of the bluesky. Never aroused, but only this. The brain melts on the marbled floor, and they walk past hastely as nothing's there. Nothing is here, and dream of cycling through a seaside factory plot alone, the inhaled poluted sky-grey air dances in your lung and chills your esophagus.
Trenger du sykkel? Ja. Jeg trenger en 3d Printer.
Jeg se ikke seashells pa stranden lenger. Kanskje fordi det er vaer?
Hver dag jeg code. Jeg forestar ikke sa jeg gjore blender, gjore norsken, draw, og sover.
31.Log1
2025.04/10
29.The Mediator Between Head and Hands Must Be the Heart!
2025.03.14/17
I've been dreaming of places a lot recently; knowing I am without death, dreams have been the truest safe place for me.
The fact of the matter is that the quote "This must be a dream" works in a complete opposite way; for it is always in suffering you wish it was all a dream, and when faced with extreme beauty of the reality, you wish it to remain a reality.
I've ran from private schools in the dark, and I quite enjoyed this; I was in some kind of a storage unit with things stacked up high.
But I wish reality will always remain a reality; I wish it not to be a dream and I wish the same for all people in the world.
I dreamt of a city like the one in Metropolis unknowingly. We share the same machine, I'm afraid. But I wish to do better. That is all the power I have; to wish and to pray. The signs when you face the true sublime and the dream seems to be so as well; but that is subconscious dressed as unconscious is it not?
Anyway,I always feel sorry to be helpless; but thats just the ego talking.
I love bonnet shells and cowries; I collect them and cherish them.( but did you hear? they are disinterested in both genders of its own kind. How peculiar.)
There is a calm violance in those with most creativity. A violence of the natural kind; not of ego. Spirituality in shapes and colors; how peculiar. Vice versa, how so common of you! It happens in trusting your peculiar way. A difficult theater; that I've awoke from and never allowed to hear myself sing. (But those marble horses and high gardens know the song.)
It's all fine, I wish for the simplest thing that many others have forgotten about. I wish for the simplest thing, dear god.
The photos shade your shadows a dark shade of hue and the lights are colorful yet shyly saturated, and my dear god; it should be so forever.
Carry a scoop to the ocean...
28.
2025.02.18
"But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin."
27.Corn Soup Crossing
2025.01.25
I would like to write to you about the corn soup crossing,where the birds chirp out of no where.
Cars are always parked on top of those roofs, and it takes an hour to climb to the designated spot.
I would like to take you to the corn soup crossing, but I never can.
But when I am able to, you will dress in black; only but a pink tiara perched on your head and shout "Don't you take beauty away from me!"
And I would be ever so happy.
0001.Annex, when you've crushed those wings.
2025.01.10
In the annex towers, little shadows follow you everywhere, down the winding descent. It pokes you, a harsh but brisk pain, which was the only lively thing that were in these grey basements.
Come to think of it, we were just now catching small shell-like butterflys for our boss. Now here in the dark, thinking about Stephenson 8-12, greeted by the end, where a large figurine of odd humanoid sculptures sat in a line. Red, orange and perhaps turquoise. It is I, who can make this or, them; who the ego hates the most. A waft of cigar from generations ago, plastered on these walls.
14.Records of ongoing youth
2024.12.21
Freddie's "darlings" aren't adressed at anybody. And I find that attractive. Don't ever find someone to address your "darlings" to. ( But he still loves you. )
